


Caped Crusaders

by Kaoro



Series: Caped Crusaders [2]
Category: DCU
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-15
Updated: 2010-04-15
Packaged: 2017-11-10 14:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/467169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaoro/pseuds/Kaoro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce and Clark's journey during the third Crusade, alongside their king Richard I the Lionheart, and how they slowly come to grow into their personas of Superman and Batman.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> AU. Historical. For giantsofold's prompt, Crusader!Bruce/Crusader/soldier/infidel/whathaveyou!Clark, on the Historical Drabbles Exchange. Set during the third Crusade.
> 
> This wasn't beta read, so feel free to point any weirdness out. And equally, please, please, tell me if I'm too vague or too precise about the historical events.

“You look quite gloomy, Bruce.” Clark commented with a smile, lightly spurring his horse so as to reach his friend’s side. The stallion shook his tail in irritation and widened his steps, stepping heavily on the dried soil and raising clouds of dust with his nervous hooves. Bruce raised his head to give him an annoyed look yet none-too-gently tugged on his reins to slow his own mount down. The later snorted in discomfort, and he apologised by loosening his hold and caressing the powerful neck in front of him with the tip of his fingers.

“This is a war Clark.” He growled low in his throat. Ace barely moved an ear at his tone, but from the corner of his eye Bruce saw Animus shy away. Clark rolled his eyes at his horse and set him walking straight again by shifting his body weight.

“No, really?” He asked with what sounded suspiciously like sarcasm.

Bruce would have smiled weren’t he so irritated.

“Yes. And we are late for the battle.” He said in a gloomy voice.

Clark raised a questioning eyebrow at him, his expression hardening.

“What about the defeat of Cyprus?” He asked, waving around them at the land they had just conquered. “Not bloody enough for your taste maybe...”

His friend turned to glare at him.

“Losses that could have been avoided. Hadn’t the late Henri and the utter moron ruling over France kept bickering for one year long over petty matters, we could have left to free Jerusalem sooner. And still, it’s no excuse: I heard even the French have already started taking part of the siege of Acre.”

“We were delayed by the storm.” Clark reminded, as if Bruce hadn’t been there when the wood had creaked and the water howled, when horses broke their legs because of the furious rolling of the waves and fierce warriors defeated by nausea emptied their stomachs on the damp floor near the agonising animals. “And we defeated an ally of Saladin. On our own. We proved England’s worth. The Pope must be proud of us.”

Bruce looked doubtful. He opened his mouth to say something before deciding against and staring straight ahead with unblinking eyes, his back straight and tense. Clark sighed and leaned to gently pat Ace’s neck. He then hurried Animus to overrun the horses in front of him and reach the ship faster.

Bruce watched him go with a pang in his chest.

*

Bruce let out a deep sigh and leaned back against the cushions of his tent. He raised the back of his hand to his forehead, let it roll so his palm shielded his eyes from the subdued light of the candles, and groaned.

Clark rolled his eyes at him.

“What now?” He chuckled between two bites of his chicken leg. He munched quickly so he could add something without choking on his food. “I mean, we are at the siege, which is what you wanted. Shouldn’t you be happy?”

He leaned backwards when Alfred walked to his side to pour him some more wine and thanked him with a quick nod and an honest smile. Alfred didn’t answer it.

“If Master Bruce was so easily satisfied, I believe he would be married, and wouldn’t leave his home on such bloody pilgrimages.” He commented matter-of-factly.

Clark raised his eyes from his goblet of wine to look at Alfred’s profile, in back-lighting from the candles on the table the man was clearing.

“Is that reproach I hear Alfred?” He asked, surprised. “We are doing the right thing after all, we are freeing...”

“I humbly believe there is work enough to do in our country without worrying about the infidels’ doings.” Alfred retorted dryly, standing up curtly with the dirty plates. He took a few steps aside, bent down and picked up a piece of meat that had fallen to the ground. “After all, He will judge us in the end. All of us.”

“Yes, and by proving we are worth, we have better chances of being judged well.” Clark insisted, quite unsettled by Alfred’s behaviour.

“Why master Clark, I believe I don’t understand.” The thin man said pragmatically, turning his face away from the paladin, which would have been extremely insulting hadn’t he been tidying the floor. “As long as we are judged just, we are being judged well, aren’t we?”

The younger man cast Bruce a distressed look, as if looking for support: he respected Alfred because he knew his friend did too, had more than once witnessed the strange friendship which had found its place between the two men, and was unsure on the course of action to follow. He was surprised to find his friend staring at his servant with narrowed eyes in something suspiciously akin to worry, his whole body taut like a bow.

Clark let out a nervous chuckle and straightened

“What I meant to say-” He explained, turning his attention to Alfred whose lips were reduced to a thin white line. “-is that by doing this Pilgrimage, we have more chances of being judged favourably.”

Alfred sharply drew himself up and Bruce cleared his throat, driving the startled attention of both men back to him.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse him, Clark.” He smiled charmingly at his friend with an elegant gesture of his hand. “Alfred has been quite irritated as of late. He seems to resent me for leaving Dick and Tim in Gotham.”

After a short hesitation followed by a small wince of understanding, Clark smiled back easily. He didn’t know what exactly was going on, but trusted both men enough to play along.

“It’s all right, it was a really interesting conversation anyway.” He laughed softly, finishing his goblet of wine while Alfred left the tent with the empty dishes. “I guess I can understand how he feels. I miss my family too. I hope I’ll accomplish something to make them proud.”

Bruce’s sharp eyes softened briefly and he raised a hand to his friend’s shoulder, squeezing it. He let it linger there for a moment, as if wanting to add something to the gesture, words of consolation, then smiled to himself, strangely bitter, and let go. He raised his goblet of wine. Clark imitated him.

“To victory.” They toasted, and Clark took his lute to cheer up their drinking.

They were on their third goblet when Alfred came back to the tent, more subdued, and offered them some honey cakes, raisins and dried dates and figs. Hadn’t Clark known better, he would almost have believed the man’s posture looked apologetic.

“Sir, I believe your men are gossipping.” The servant pointed out after a few seconds of blissful and replete silence. He glanced meaningfully between both men before focusing his attention back on his master. “Again, might I add.”

Bruce rolled his eyes and let himself fall back with a new groan into the cushions whose support he had had so much trouble leaving earlier. Clark raised both eyebrows at him, but was met with a flat look that disappeared behind eyelids when his friend closed his eyes in concentration.

“All right.” Bruce sighed, defeated. “Bring me a woman tonight.”

Alfred couldn’t hide a sympathetic smile, not that his master was looking. Clark shook his head to himself and played a few notes of his lute, ignoring them. He felt a great deal of affection for his friend, but it didn’t mean he had to support the man’s absurd need to maintain a sinful and lustful reputation.

“Of course sir.” Alfred nodded.

“A loud one.” Bruce added after a reflective pause. “Possibly willing.” One blue eye opened to meet Alfred’s amused gaze. “I can pay as long as she’s clean.”

 “Very well sir.”

Clark rolled his eyes. He shouldn’t have, as his reaction attracted Alfred’s attention.

“Shall I provide one for you too?”

Bruce opened his eyes, smirking madly, and straightened up to look at him with a predatory look.

“Why, yes, should we?” He asked, showing teeth.

Clark blinked, feeling he was being played, but unable to stop himself from refusing with an exclamation of unease. Bruce just chuckled when he muttered something about chivalry, Miss Lois and finally chastity, which only made him laugh even louder.

To tears.

*

The woman was soft and round and powerful. She had the curves and the thighs of a mare, her hair danced like a dark mane in the wind with the rhythmic undulations of their bodies. The light downy hairs of her belly were covered in a thin layer of sweat, some of it dropping onto his chest from the red and swollen tips of her breasts, quite reminiscing of open flowers. She rode him vigorously, leaving him and then welcoming him back inside of her, wet and warm and clenching around him before, again, raising her hips, letting cool air tease him, and he had to grit his teeth, grab her hips to pull her downwards again, slamming against him. She grasped his shoulders with jerking hands, the strength of her orgasm making it impossible for her muscles not to shake uncontrollably. She arched her back, shivered in pleasure – or at least pretended to, not that he really cared – and bit her lips, throwing her head back with a gasp.

And oh god, was she loud. She whimpered and screamed and cursed and moaned, and Bruce couldn’t wait until it was over.

*

“My king, please.” Clark said in a strong voice, bracing both hands down on the table around which the nobles had gathered to discuss the situation, and leaning over it. He wore his family blue armour which, as if the responsibility of his ancestors’ reputation fuelled his will with steel, always turned him into a different, unfaltering man. “Reconsider.”

The table was thick and heavy, made of a dark oriental wood carved with original patterns unknown to European artists. It was a stable object, one he knew he could decently lower his fist on to mark his point should the need for a heated debate arise.

 “My king, I have to agree with Sir Kent.” Bruce stated, seeing Clark’s shoulders relax very slightly as he voiced his own opinion. “Executing all the prisoners will be a useless bloodshed. But we have captured two generals, one of which is close to the royal blood. Should we need to pressure Saladin into paying the terms of the treaty, I suggest we use them as a warning.”

He stepped forward and touched the surface of the table with the tips of his hands. Clark jerked his face towards him, a flash of betrayal crossing his features before cold anger replaced it. He glared at his friend from narrowed eyes. Bruce ignored him.

“I believe such a strategy would help us prevent a wave of anti-Christians from uniting the Muslims against us, which is doomed to happen should we chose to execute all of our prisoners, and would put us into quite a tight spot.”

Clark straightened in front of him and looked away.

Caressing his beard, Richard looked at him and then at Clark, before smiling with an amusement that made Bruce’s hair stand up on the back of his neck in disgust. That man had already chosen his course of action, gathering the nobles of his army was just a way of showing them who exactly made the rules. He would let them speak as long as it distracted him, and then he would strike without a care for their arguments. This man was too new to power plays, too green; so many responsibilities had corrupted him, making him take pleasure in flaunting himself. He didn’t understand the subtleties, as he had already proven with the insult done to Austria: casting down king Leopold V’s standard from the city of Acre had been far from wise. Richard had yet yo realise that you only make enemies of people you can keep close to yourself. Otherwise you never know what they might be plotting.

Clark seemed to understand he was losing the debate.

“We cannot forget Saladin has prisoners too, and that if we get rid of our own, we will have no means to pressure him into keeping them alive and well.”

Comfortably seated in his wooden throne, Richard raised two fingers to stop Clark. The younger man closed his mouth slowly in obedience but clenched his jaw, a sign of frustration the king acknowledged with a slight nod before motioning Bruce to approach him. The Lord of Gotham went round the table until he faced his ruler.

“You seem to believe the Muslims can be a threat to us.” Richard noticed, and there was a warning in his voice that made Bruce’s heart miss a beat before resuming its normal pace.

“They have a great army, made of fine generals and loyal soldiers. As long as we are on Earth, my king, we are only humans.” He answered. “Blade kills.”

“Hm, yes, but blades kill only the flesh.” Richard frowned in concentration.

He gestured to Clark who walked to Bruce’s side and bowed curtly in gratefulness for the right to speak up.

“My king, I am a pilgrimer, but also a warrior. As such I have killed many on the battlefield, and will never be ashamed of it, as I did it for a just cause.” He explained, staring straight into his king’s eyes, and even though it made him scowl, Bruce couldn’t help but admire him for it. His friend was perfectly aware of the dangers of doing such a thing, which made him the most foolish brave man he had ever met. “However-” Clark added resolutely. “I will not kill unarmed innocents.”

His words were met with an uneasy silence only disturbed by the sound of their breathing and the rustle of the king caressing his copper beard.

“Yes, yes, I remember, you have made vows...” Richard said, lost in thoughts. Some of the nobles snickered none too discreetly, but he silenced them with a harsh glare. When he stood up, fear crossed many faces. A soothing gesture from his right hand erased it. “I admire your strength as a warrior, Sir Kent, and you have proven your worth more than once. You are a valuable and respectable man, one in whose hands I would entrust my life blindly. Do not worry, as I will not make you kill any innocent.” He smiled kindly, his eyes wrinkling with the gesture. “For no Muslim is innocent. But in consideration towards you, I will not require your presence at the execution should you prefer not to come.”

 Bruce couldn’t help but close his eyes briefly to take a deep breath, disappointment overcoming him. He quickly regained his composure when Richard turned his eyes on him.

“Sir Wayne, you are a judicious man, and you have the truly brilliant mind of a general. Yet, you forgot to include one thing in your reasoning, which is all the wiser, as it shows you do not take Him for granted: we are here to undo the Wrong and punish the Infidels. The Muslims will perish, no matter how many they are, for He is with us and it is His wish. Saladin thought he could fool us – we will not tolerate it.”

And Bruce bowed deeply, slowly enough for Clark to have the time to follow him in his gesture of submission.

*

Acre’s plain was scarlet, as if whores’ breasts had blossomed all over the place, dyeing it a burning obscene red. The sky was clear, the light was bright, the bodies on the soil were of a golden tint, and Bruce couldn’t help but notice how colourful death actually was. The screams had ceased already, and yet there hadn’t been quite the chorus one could have expected. Many soldiers of the garrison they had executed had stared at them silently, hatefully, their gazes fuelled with contempt, and even dead they kept staring at them with something like challenge, provocation, indomitability.

Watch and learn, he told himself, watch and learn. Remember, this is why you left Gotham. So you could learn and bring knowledge back to your people, those poor, uncultured people who pin living owls and bats to their doors to protects themselves from sorcery.

But what knowledge? What was the purpose of this search ? What had everything he had seen taught him? Fear. Scaring Saladin into bending to Richard’s will. Fear, which Richard used to impose silence to his subjects as if they had been cursed with silence and cowardliness. Fear of His fury should His believers choose to believe otherwise.

Fear: cowardice and superstition.

Bruce stood up, uselessly dusting his pants to regain his composure, and if he noticed the slight tremor of Alfred’s hands as the servant folded the wooden stool he had been seated to watch the execution, he didn’t show it. He stopped, felt bitterness fill his mouth and bile burn his throat, stared at the field of corpses spread in front of him, blue sky and sea and here and there the ochre colour of the soil and the skins on which the red blood had drawn sinuous lines.

“Watch and learn.” He mouthed to himself.

By his side, Clark raised eyes ablaze at him, as if he had heard him.

“You look quite gloomy, Bruce.” Clark commented with a smile, lightly spurring his horse so as to reach his friend’s side. The stallion shook his tail in irritation and widened his steps, stepping heavily on the dried soil and raising clouds of dust with his nervous hooves. Bruce raised his head to give him an annoyed look yet none-too-gently tugged on his reins to slow his own mount down. The later snorted in discomfort, and he apologised by loosening his hold and caressing the powerful neck in front of him with the tip of his fingers.

“This is a war Clark.” He growled low in his throat. Ace barely moved an ear at his tone, but from the corner of his eye Bruce saw Animus shy away. Clark rolled his eyes at his horse and set him walking straight again by shifting his body weight.

“No, really?” He asked with what sounded suspiciously like sarcasm.

Bruce would have smiled weren’t he so irritated.

“Yes. And we are late for the battle.” He said in a gloomy voice.

Clark raised a questioning eyebrow at him, his expression hardening.

“What about the defeat of Cyprus?” He asked, waving around them at the land they had just conquered. “Not bloody enough for your taste maybe...”

His friend turned to glare at him.

“Losses that could have been avoided. Hadn’t the late Henri and the utter moron ruling over France kept bickering for one year long over petty matters, we could have left to free Jerusalem sooner. And still, it’s no excuse: I heard even the French have already started taking part of the siege of Acre.”

“We were delayed by the storm.” Clark reminded, as if Bruce hadn’t been there when the wood had creaked and the water howled, when horses broke their legs because of the furious rolling of the waves and fierce warriors defeated by nausea emptied their stomachs on the damp floor near the agonising animals. “And we defeated an ally of Saladin. On our own. We proved England’s worth. The Pope must be proud of us.”

Bruce looked doubtful. He opened his mouth to say something before deciding against and staring straight ahead with unblinking eyes, his back straight and tense. Clark sighed and leaned to gently pat Ace’s neck. He then hurried Animus to overrun the horses in front of him and reach the ship faster.

Bruce watched him go with a pang in his chest.

*

Bruce let out a deep sigh and leaned back against the cushions of his tent. He raised the back of his hand to his forehead, let it roll so his palm shielded his eyes from the subdued light of the candles, and groaned.

Clark rolled his eyes at him.

“What now?” He chuckled between two bites of his chicken leg. He munched quickly so he could add something without choking on his food. “I mean, we are at the siege, which is what you wanted. Shouldn’t you be happy?”

He leaned backwards when Alfred walked to his side to pour him some more wine and thanked him with a quick nod and an honest smile. Alfred didn’t answer it.

“If Master Bruce was so easily satisfied, I believe he would be married, and wouldn’t leave his home on such bloody pilgrimages.” He commented matter-of-factly.

Clark raised his eyes from his goblet of wine to look at Alfred’s profile, in back-lighting from the candles on the table the man was clearing.

“Is that reproach I hear Alfred?” He asked, surprised. “We are doing the right thing after all, we are freeing...”

“I humbly believe there is work enough to do in our country without worrying about the infidels’ doings.” Alfred retorted dryly, standing up curtly with the dirty plates. He took a few steps aside, bent down and picked up a piece of meat that had fallen to the ground. “After all, He will judge us in the end. All of us.”

“Yes, and by proving we are worth, we have better chances of being judged well.” Clark insisted, quite unsettled by Alfred’s behaviour.

“Why master Clark, I believe I don’t understand.” The thin man said pragmatically, turning his face away from the paladin, which would have been extremely insulting hadn’t he been tidying the floor. “As long as we are judged just, we are being judged well, aren’t we?”

The younger man cast Bruce a distressed look, as if looking for support: he respected Alfred because he knew his friend did too, had more than once witnessed the strange friendship which had found its place between the two men, and was unsure on the course of action to follow. He was surprised to find his friend staring at his servant with narrowed eyes in something suspiciously akin to worry, his whole body taut like a bow.

Clark let out a nervous chuckle and straightened

“What I meant to say-” He explained, turning his attention to Alfred whose lips were reduced to a thin white line. “-is that by doing this Pilgrimage, we have more chances of being judged favourably.”

Alfred sharply drew himself up and Bruce cleared his throat, driving the startled attention of both men back to him.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse him, Clark.” He smiled charmingly at his friend with an elegant gesture of his hand. “Alfred has been quite irritated as of late. He seems to resent me for leaving Dick and Tim in Gotham.”

After a short hesitation followed by a small wince of understanding, Clark smiled back easily. He didn’t know what exactly was going on, but trusted both men enough to play along.

“It’s all right, it was a really interesting conversation anyway.” He laughed softly, finishing his goblet of wine while Alfred left the tent with the empty dishes. “I guess I can understand how he feels. I miss my family too. I hope I’ll accomplish something to make them proud.”

Bruce’s sharp eyes softened briefly and he raised a hand to his friend’s shoulder, squeezing it. He let it linger there for a moment, as if wanting to add something to the gesture, words of consolation, then smiled to himself, strangely bitter, and let go. He raised his goblet of wine. Clark imitated him.

“To victory.” They toasted, and Clark took his lute to cheer up their drinking.

They were on their third goblet when Alfred came back to the tent, more subdued, and offered them some honey cakes, raisins and dried dates and figs. Hadn’t Clark known better, he would almost have believed the man’s posture looked apologetic.

“Sir, I believe your men are gossipping.” The servant pointed out after a few seconds of blissful and replete silence. He glanced meaningfully between both men before focusing his attention back on his master. “Again, might I add.”

Bruce rolled his eyes and let himself fall back with a new groan into the cushions whose support he had had so much trouble leaving earlier. Clark raised both eyebrows at him, but was met with a flat look that disappeared behind eyelids when his friend closed his eyes in concentration.

“All right.” Bruce sighed, defeated. “Bring me a woman tonight.”

Alfred couldn’t hide a sympathetic smile, not that his master was looking. Clark shook his head to himself and played a few notes of his lute, ignoring them. He felt a great deal of affection for his friend, but it didn’t mean he had to support the man’s absurd need to maintain a sinful and lustful reputation.

“Of course sir.” Alfred nodded.

“A loud one.” Bruce added after a reflective pause. “Possibly willing.” One blue eye opened to meet Alfred’s amused gaze. “I can pay as long as she’s clean.”

 “Very well sir.”

Clark rolled his eyes. He shouldn’t have, as his reaction attracted Alfred’s attention.

“Shall I provide one for you too?”

Bruce opened his eyes, smirking madly, and straightened up to look at him with a predatory look.

“Why, yes, should we?” He asked, showing teeth.

Clark blinked, feeling he was being played, but unable to stop himself from refusing with an exclamation of unease. Bruce just chuckled when he muttered something about chivalry, Miss Lois and finally chastity, which only made him laugh even louder.

To tears.

*

The woman was soft and round and powerful. She had the curves and the thighs of a mare, her hair danced like a dark mane in the wind with the rhythmic undulations of their bodies. The light downy hairs of her belly were covered in a thin layer of sweat, some of it dropping onto his chest from the red and swollen tips of her breasts, quite reminiscing of open flowers. She rode him vigorously, leaving him and then welcoming him back inside of her, wet and warm and clenching around him before, again, raising her hips, letting cool air tease him, and he had to grit his teeth, grab her hips to pull her downwards again, slamming against him. She grasped his shoulders with jerking hands, the strength of her orgasm making it impossible for her muscles not to shake uncontrollably. She arched her back, shivered in pleasure – or at least pretended to, not that he really cared – and bit her lips, throwing her head back with a gasp.

And oh god, was she loud. She whimpered and screamed and cursed and moaned, and Bruce couldn’t wait until it was over.

*

“My king, please.” Clark said in a strong voice, bracing both hands down on the table around which the nobles had gathered to discuss the situation, and leaning over it. He wore his family blue armour which, as if the responsibility of his ancestors’ reputation fuelled his will with steel, always turned him into a different, unfaltering man. “Reconsider.”

The table was thick and heavy, made of a dark oriental wood carved with original patterns unknown to European artists. It was a stable object, one he knew he could decently lower his fist on to mark his point should the need for a heated debate arise.

 “My king, I have to agree with Sir Kent.” Bruce stated, seeing Clark’s shoulders relax very slightly as he voiced his own opinion. “Executing all the prisoners will be a useless bloodshed. But we have captured two generals, one of which is close to the royal blood. Should we need to pressure Saladin into paying the terms of the treaty, I suggest we use them as a warning.”

He stepped forward and touched the surface of the table with the tips of his hands. Clark jerked his face towards him, a flash of betrayal crossing his features before cold anger replaced it. He glared at his friend from narrowed eyes. Bruce ignored him.

“I believe such a strategy would help us prevent a wave of anti-Christians from uniting the Muslims against us, which is doomed to happen should we chose to execute all of our prisoners, and would put us into quite a tight spot.”

Clark straightened in front of him and looked away.

Caressing his beard, Richard looked at him and then at Clark, before smiling with an amusement that made Bruce’s hair stand up on the back of his neck in disgust. That man had already chosen his course of action, gathering the nobles of his army was just a way of showing them who exactly made the rules. He would let them speak as long as it distracted him, and then he would strike without a care for their arguments. This man was too new to power plays, too green; so many responsibilities had corrupted him, making him take pleasure in flaunting himself. He didn’t understand the subtleties, as he had already proven with the insult done to Austria: casting down king Leopold V’s standard from the city of Acre had been far from wise. Richard had yet yo realise that you only make enemies of people you can keep close to yourself. Otherwise you never know what they might be plotting.

Clark seemed to understand he was losing the debate.

“We cannot forget Saladin has prisoners too, and that if we get rid of our own, we will have no means to pressure him into keeping them alive and well.”

Comfortably seated in his wooden throne, Richard raised two fingers to stop Clark. The younger man closed his mouth slowly in obedience but clenched his jaw, a sign of frustration the king acknowledged with a slight nod before motioning Bruce to approach him. The Lord of Gotham went round the table until he faced his ruler.

“You seem to believe the Muslims can be a threat to us.” Richard noticed, and there was a warning in his voice that made Bruce’s heart miss a beat before resuming its normal pace.

“They have a great army, made of fine generals and loyal soldiers. As long as we are on Earth, my king, we are only humans.” He answered. “Blade kills.”

“Hm, yes, but blades kill only the flesh.” Richard frowned in concentration.

He gestured to Clark who walked to Bruce’s side and bowed curtly in gratefulness for the right to speak up.

“My king, I am a pilgrimer, but also a warrior. As such I have killed many on the battlefield, and will never be ashamed of it, as I did it for a just cause.” He explained, staring straight into his king’s eyes, and even though it made him scowl, Bruce couldn’t help but admire him for it. His friend was perfectly aware of the dangers of doing such a thing, which made him the most foolish brave man he had ever met. “However-” Clark added resolutely. “I will not kill unarmed innocents.”

His words were met with an uneasy silence only disturbed by the sound of their breathing and the rustle of the king caressing his copper beard.

“Yes, yes, I remember, you have made vows...” Richard said, lost in thoughts. Some of the nobles snickered none too discreetly, but he silenced them with a harsh glare. When he stood up, fear crossed many faces. A soothing gesture from his right hand erased it. “I admire your strength as a warrior, Sir Kent, and you have proven your worth more than once. You are a valuable and respectable man, one in whose hands I would entrust my life blindly. Do not worry, as I will not make you kill any innocent.” He smiled kindly, his eyes wrinkling with the gesture. “For no Muslim is innocent. But in consideration towards you, I will not require your presence at the execution should you prefer not to come.”

 Bruce couldn’t help but close his eyes briefly to take a deep breath, disappointment overcoming him. He quickly regained his composure when Richard turned his eyes on him.

“Sir Wayne, you are a judicious man, and you have the truly brilliant mind of a general. Yet, you forgot to include one thing in your reasoning, which is all the wiser, as it shows you do not take Him for granted: we are here to undo the Wrong and punish the Infidels. The Muslims will perish, no matter how many they are, for He is with us and it is His wish. Saladin thought he could fool us – we will not tolerate it.”

And Bruce bowed deeply, slowly enough for Clark to have the time to follow him in his gesture of submission.

*

Acre’s plain was scarlet, as if whores’ breasts had blossomed all over the place, dyeing it a burning obscene red. The sky was clear, the light was bright, the bodies on the soil were of a golden tint, and Bruce couldn’t help but notice how colourful death actually was. The screams had ceased already, and yet there hadn’t been quite the chorus one could have expected. Many soldiers of the garrison they had executed had stared at them silently, hatefully, their gazes fuelled with contempt, and even dead they kept staring at them with something like challenge, provocation, indomitability.

Watch and learn, he told himself, watch and learn. Remember, this is why you left Gotham. So you could learn and bring knowledge back to your people, those poor, uncultured people who pin living owls and bats to their doors to protects themselves from sorcery.

But what knowledge? What was the purpose of this search ? What had everything he had seen taught him? Fear. Scaring Saladin into bending to Richard’s will. Fear, which Richard used to impose silence to his subjects as if they had been cursed with silence and cowardliness. Fear of His fury should His believers choose to believe otherwise.

Fear: cowardice and superstition.

Bruce stood up, uselessly dusting his pants to regain his composure, and if he noticed the slight tremor of Alfred’s hands as the servant folded the wooden stool he had been seated to watch the execution, he didn’t show it. He stopped, felt bitterness fill his mouth and bile burn his throat, stared at the field of corpses spread in front of him, blue sky and sea and here and there the ochre colour of the soil and the skins on which the red blood had drawn sinuous lines.

“Watch and learn.” He mouthed to himself.

By his side, Clark raised eyes ablaze at him, as if he had heard him.“You look quite gloomy, Bruce.” Clark commented with a smile, lightly spurring his horse so as to reach his friend’s side. The stallion shook his tail in irritation and widened his steps, stepping heavily on the dried soil and raising clouds of dust with his nervous hooves. Bruce raised his head to give him an annoyed look yet none-too-gently tugged on his reins to slow his own mount down. The later snorted in discomfort, and he apologised by loosening his hold and caressing the powerful neck in front of him with the tip of his fingers.

“This is a war Clark.” He growled low in his throat. Ace barely moved an ear at his tone, but from the corner of his eye Bruce saw Animus shy away. Clark rolled his eyes at his horse and set him walking straight again by shifting his body weight.

“No, really?” He asked with what sounded suspiciously like sarcasm.

Bruce would have smiled weren’t he so irritated.

“Yes. And we are late for the battle.” He said in a gloomy voice.

Clark raised a questioning eyebrow at him, his expression hardening.

“What about the defeat of Cyprus?” He asked, waving around them at the land they had just conquered. “Not bloody enough for your taste maybe...”

His friend turned to glare at him.

“Losses that could have been avoided. Hadn’t the late Henri and the utter moron ruling over France kept bickering for one year long over petty matters, we could have left to free Jerusalem sooner. And still, it’s no excuse: I heard even the French have already started taking part of the siege of Acre.”

“We were delayed by the storm.” Clark reminded, as if Bruce hadn’t been there when the wood had creaked and the water howled, when horses broke their legs because of the furious rolling of the waves and fierce warriors defeated by nausea emptied their stomachs on the damp floor near the agonising animals. “And we defeated an ally of Saladin. On our own. We proved England’s worth. The Pope must be proud of us.”

Bruce looked doubtful. He opened his mouth to say something before deciding against and staring straight ahead with unblinking eyes, his back straight and tense. Clark sighed and leaned to gently pat Ace’s neck. He then hurried Animus to overrun the horses in front of him and reach the ship faster.

Bruce watched him go with a pang in his chest.

*

Bruce let out a deep sigh and leaned back against the cushions of his tent. He raised the back of his hand to his forehead, let it roll so his palm shielded his eyes from the subdued light of the candles, and groaned.

Clark rolled his eyes at him.

“What now?” He chuckled between two bites of his chicken leg. He munched quickly so he could add something without choking on his food. “I mean, we are at the siege, which is what you wanted. Shouldn’t you be happy?”

He leaned backwards when Alfred walked to his side to pour him some more wine and thanked him with a quick nod and an honest smile. Alfred didn’t answer it.

“If Master Bruce was so easily satisfied, I believe he would be married, and wouldn’t leave his home on such bloody pilgrimages.” He commented matter-of-factly.

Clark raised his eyes from his goblet of wine to look at Alfred’s profile, in back-lighting from the candles on the table the man was clearing.

“Is that reproach I hear Alfred?” He asked, surprised. “We are doing the right thing after all, we are freeing...”

“I humbly believe there is work enough to do in our country without worrying about the infidels’ doings.” Alfred retorted dryly, standing up curtly with the dirty plates. He took a few steps aside, bent down and picked up a piece of meat that had fallen to the ground. “After all, He will judge us in the end. All of us.”

“Yes, and by proving we are worth, we have better chances of being judged well.” Clark insisted, quite unsettled by Alfred’s behaviour.

“Why master Clark, I believe I don’t understand.” The thin man said pragmatically, turning his face away from the paladin, which would have been extremely insulting hadn’t he been tidying the floor. “As long as we are judged just, we are being judged well, aren’t we?”

The younger man cast Bruce a distressed look, as if looking for support: he respected Alfred because he knew his friend did too, had more than once witnessed the strange friendship which had found its place between the two men, and was unsure on the course of action to follow. He was surprised to find his friend staring at his servant with narrowed eyes in something suspiciously akin to worry, his whole body taut like a bow.

Clark let out a nervous chuckle and straightened

“What I meant to say-” He explained, turning his attention to Alfred whose lips were reduced to a thin white line. “-is that by doing this Pilgrimage, we have more chances of being judged favourably.”

Alfred sharply drew himself up and Bruce cleared his throat, driving the startled attention of both men back to him.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse him, Clark.” He smiled charmingly at his friend with an elegant gesture of his hand. “Alfred has been quite irritated as of late. He seems to resent me for leaving Dick and Tim in Gotham.”

After a short hesitation followed by a small wince of understanding, Clark smiled back easily. He didn’t know what exactly was going on, but trusted both men enough to play along.

“It’s all right, it was a really interesting conversation anyway.” He laughed softly, finishing his goblet of wine while Alfred left the tent with the empty dishes. “I guess I can understand how he feels. I miss my family too. I hope I’ll accomplish something to make them proud.”

Bruce’s sharp eyes softened briefly and he raised a hand to his friend’s shoulder, squeezing it. He let it linger there for a moment, as if wanting to add something to the gesture, words of consolation, then smiled to himself, strangely bitter, and let go. He raised his goblet of wine. Clark imitated him.

“To victory.” They toasted, and Clark took his lute to cheer up their drinking.

They were on their third goblet when Alfred came back to the tent, more subdued, and offered them some honey cakes, raisins and dried dates and figs. Hadn’t Clark known better, he would almost have believed the man’s posture looked apologetic.

“Sir, I believe your men are gossipping.” The servant pointed out after a few seconds of blissful and replete silence. He glanced meaningfully between both men before focusing his attention back on his master. “Again, might I add.”

Bruce rolled his eyes and let himself fall back with a new groan into the cushions whose support he had had so much trouble leaving earlier. Clark raised both eyebrows at him, but was met with a flat look that disappeared behind eyelids when his friend closed his eyes in concentration.

“All right.” Bruce sighed, defeated. “Bring me a woman tonight.”

Alfred couldn’t hide a sympathetic smile, not that his master was looking. Clark shook his head to himself and played a few notes of his lute, ignoring them. He felt a great deal of affection for his friend, but it didn’t mean he had to support the man’s absurd need to maintain a sinful and lustful reputation.

“Of course sir.” Alfred nodded.

“A loud one.” Bruce added after a reflective pause. “Possibly willing.” One blue eye opened to meet Alfred’s amused gaze. “I can pay as long as she’s clean.”

 “Very well sir.”

Clark rolled his eyes. He shouldn’t have, as his reaction attracted Alfred’s attention.

“Shall I provide one for you too?”

Bruce opened his eyes, smirking madly, and straightened up to look at him with a predatory look.

“Why, yes, should we?” He asked, showing teeth.

Clark blinked, feeling he was being played, but unable to stop himself from refusing with an exclamation of unease. Bruce just chuckled when he muttered something about chivalry, Miss Lois and finally chastity, which only made him laugh even louder.

To tears.

*

The woman was soft and round and powerful. She had the curves and the thighs of a mare, her hair danced like a dark mane in the wind with the rhythmic undulations of their bodies. The light downy hairs of her belly were covered in a thin layer of sweat, some of it dropping onto his chest from the red and swollen tips of her breasts, quite reminiscing of open flowers. She rode him vigorously, leaving him and then welcoming him back inside of her, wet and warm and clenching around him before, again, raising her hips, letting cool air tease him, and he had to grit his teeth, grab her hips to pull her downwards again, slamming against him. She grasped his shoulders with jerking hands, the strength of her orgasm making it impossible for her muscles not to shake uncontrollably. She arched her back, shivered in pleasure – or at least pretended to, not that he really cared – and bit her lips, throwing her head back with a gasp.

And oh god, was she loud. She whimpered and screamed and cursed and moaned, and Bruce couldn’t wait until it was over.

*

“My king, please.” Clark said in a strong voice, bracing both hands down on the table around which the nobles had gathered to discuss the situation, and leaning over it. He wore his family blue armour which, as if the responsibility of his ancestors’ reputation fuelled his will with steel, always turned him into a different, unfaltering man. “Reconsider.”

The table was thick and heavy, made of a dark oriental wood carved with original patterns unknown to European artists. It was a stable object, one he knew he could decently lower his fist on to mark his point should the need for a heated debate arise.

 “My king, I have to agree with Sir Kent.” Bruce stated, seeing Clark’s shoulders relax very slightly as he voiced his own opinion. “Executing all the prisoners will be a useless bloodshed. But we have captured two generals, one of which is close to the royal blood. Should we need to pressure Saladin into paying the terms of the treaty, I suggest we use them as a warning.”

He stepped forward and touched the surface of the table with the tips of his hands. Clark jerked his face towards him, a flash of betrayal crossing his features before cold anger replaced it. He glared at his friend from narrowed eyes. Bruce ignored him.

“I believe such a strategy would help us prevent a wave of anti-Christians from uniting the Muslims against us, which is doomed to happen should we chose to execute all of our prisoners, and would put us into quite a tight spot.”

Clark straightened in front of him and looked away.

Caressing his beard, Richard looked at him and then at Clark, before smiling with an amusement that made Bruce’s hair stand up on the back of his neck in disgust. That man had already chosen his course of action, gathering the nobles of his army was just a way of showing them who exactly made the rules. He would let them speak as long as it distracted him, and then he would strike without a care for their arguments. This man was too new to power plays, too green; so many responsibilities had corrupted him, making him take pleasure in flaunting himself. He didn’t understand the subtleties, as he had already proven with the insult done to Austria: casting down king Leopold V’s standard from the city of Acre had been far from wise. Richard had yet yo realise that you only make enemies of people you can keep close to yourself. Otherwise you never know what they might be plotting.

Clark seemed to understand he was losing the debate.

“We cannot forget Saladin has prisoners too, and that if we get rid of our own, we will have no means to pressure him into keeping them alive and well.”

Comfortably seated in his wooden throne, Richard raised two fingers to stop Clark. The younger man closed his mouth slowly in obedience but clenched his jaw, a sign of frustration the king acknowledged with a slight nod before motioning Bruce to approach him. The Lord of Gotham went round the table until he faced his ruler.

“You seem to believe the Muslims can be a threat to us.” Richard noticed, and there was a warning in his voice that made Bruce’s heart miss a beat before resuming its normal pace.

“They have a great army, made of fine generals and loyal soldiers. As long as we are on Earth, my king, we are only humans.” He answered. “Blade kills.”

“Hm, yes, but blades kill only the flesh.” Richard frowned in concentration.

He gestured to Clark who walked to Bruce’s side and bowed curtly in gratefulness for the right to speak up.

“My king, I am a pilgrimer, but also a warrior. As such I have killed many on the battlefield, and will never be ashamed of it, as I did it for a just cause.” He explained, staring straight into his king’s eyes, and even though it made him scowl, Bruce couldn’t help but admire him for it. His friend was perfectly aware of the dangers of doing such a thing, which made him the most foolish brave man he had ever met. “However-” Clark added resolutely. “I will not kill unarmed innocents.”

His words were met with an uneasy silence only disturbed by the sound of their breathing and the rustle of the king caressing his copper beard.

“Yes, yes, I remember, you have made vows...” Richard said, lost in thoughts. Some of the nobles snickered none too discreetly, but he silenced them with a harsh glare. When he stood up, fear crossed many faces. A soothing gesture from his right hand erased it. “I admire your strength as a warrior, Sir Kent, and you have proven your worth more than once. You are a valuable and respectable man, one in whose hands I would entrust my life blindly. Do not worry, as I will not make you kill any innocent.” He smiled kindly, his eyes wrinkling with the gesture. “For no Muslim is innocent. But in consideration towards you, I will not require your presence at the execution should you prefer not to come.”

 Bruce couldn’t help but close his eyes briefly to take a deep breath, disappointment overcoming him. He quickly regained his composure when Richard turned his eyes on him.

“Sir Wayne, you are a judicious man, and you have the truly brilliant mind of a general. Yet, you forgot to include one thing in your reasoning, which is all the wiser, as it shows you do not take Him for granted: we are here to undo the Wrong and punish the Infidels. The Muslims will perish, no matter how many they are, for He is with us and it is His wish. Saladin thought he could fool us – we will not tolerate it.”

And Bruce bowed deeply, slowly enough for Clark to have the time to follow him in his gesture of submission.

*

Acre’s plain was scarlet, as if whores’ breasts had blossomed all over the place, dyeing it a burning obscene red. The sky was clear, the light was bright, the bodies on the soil were of a golden tint, and Bruce couldn’t help but notice how colourful death actually was. The screams had ceased already, and yet there hadn’t been quite the chorus one could have expected. Many soldiers of the garrison they had executed had stared at them silently, hatefully, their gazes fuelled with contempt, and even dead they kept staring at them with something like challenge, provocation, indomitability.

Watch and learn, he told himself, watch and learn. Remember, this is why you left Gotham. So you could learn and bring knowledge back to your people, those poor, uncultured people who pin living owls and bats to their doors to protects themselves from sorcery.

But what knowledge? What was the purpose of this search ? What had everything he had seen taught him? Fear. Scaring Saladin into bending to Richard’s will. Fear, which Richard used to impose silence to his subjects as if they had been cursed with silence and cowardliness. Fear of His fury should His believers choose to believe otherwise.

Fear: cowardice and superstition.

Bruce stood up, uselessly dusting his pants to regain his composure, and if he noticed the slight tremor of Alfred’s hands as the servant folded the wooden stool he had been seated to watch the execution, he didn’t show it. He stopped, felt bitterness fill his mouth and bile burn his throat, stared at the field of corpses spread in front of him, blue sky and sea and here and there the ochre colour of the soil and the skins on which the red blood had drawn sinuous lines.

“Watch and learn.” He mouthed to himself.

By his side, Clark raised eyes ablaze at him, as if he had heard him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Richard just wrote himself into one freaky hell of a king... Sorry.
> 
> The whole Muslim/Christian thing: this is a historical fic set in the time of the crusades. Just as a reminder. And you have no idea how hard it was to write Bruce not being a hard rock atheist because, really, he'd be waaaaaaay too ahead of his time.


	2. Chapter 2

“I know they are infidels, Muslims, but there were women there!” Clark snarled as soon as they entered his friend’s tent, and Bruce barely had time to lock him in a tight embrace to muffle his words against his shoulder before his friend started howling in fury. “And even if there hadn’t been, if they had just executed unarmed surrendered soldiers, it still doesn’t make it right. Nothing does or ever will make it right. There could have been redemption, there always is room for forgiveness or hope.”

They were in the middle of the camp, Clark should know better. There was so much noise Alfred could do tidying the place to distract people from their conversation without attracting indiscreet ears. Bruce was furious. He was yet to understand who exactly he was furious at, though. Himself for having stood a silent witness? Clark for having no semblance of self-preservation? Alfred for always being so right? Philippe Auguste of France for having left the king of England in charge of the negotiations? Saladin for not having respected the clauses of the treaty? Richard I for having given the order of the execution?

Clark grabbed his arm hard and moved away to stare into his eyes, unblinking.

“Bruce, tell me you don’t accept this. Tell me you won’t stand for it.” He spoke harshly, his hold on his friend’s arm so strong it threatened to bruise. “Don’t look away. Just tell me you don’t.”

Bruce didn’t answer, stared straight back at him, expressionless.

Clark looked away in disgust.

It didn’t come as a surprise to neither of them when, some times later, a blank Alfred informed them Saladin had retaliated on the Christian prisoners.

 

*

 

Bruce hated camels. They reduced the most belligerent stallions into whimpering foals, eyes wide and bloodshot with terror, and even the bravest and stolidest gelds such as Ace, neutered for reliability’s sake, weren’t at ease around them. Too tall, they made horse-riders lose all tactical advantages, and they were difficult to maneuver around.

He took a vindictive pleasure in grabbing the leg above him and throwing his enemy off his mount, the sound of bones cracking under hooves lost in the battle’s clamour.

Ace missed his footing on the bodies they were stepping on, started giving into panic. With a snarl, Bruce pressured him into advancing, giving him new balance and focus as they charged another group of warriors. His eyes widened when he caught sight of a familiar horse armor on a form writhing in pain among the fallen ones, and in a surge of fury he grabbed a nearby lance on which he impaled an enemy. He pushed hard, sending the wounded soldier staggering backwards against a comrade. They sprawled to the ground. It wouldn’t take long until someone put an end to their agony. Bruce was too busy to do it.

“Clark!” He shouted, making sure Ace stayed in the agonising horse’s surroundings. Surely his friend couldn’t have gone too far from where Animus had been wounded. “Clark, where are you?!”

An Arabian fire thrower ran towards him from his left, readying a ball of fire. Ace neighed in fear and tried to rear up, but there was not enough room, and the helplessness was getting to his nerves. Bruce cursed, harshly backed his leg against his horse’s flank to force him to quickly move on, and raised his sword, using momentum and gravity to cut the fire thrower’s head off. He missed: at the last moment, Ace shied away from the fire. The sword got the man’s chest, effectively killing him, but got stuck in his ribcage. Dejected, Bruce let go of his sword and watched the body collapse to the ground when he felt a hand try to grab his ankle. He threw his own towards Ace’s head, loosening his hold of the reins so the horse could stretch his neck, screamed incoherencies into his mount’s ears.

Fear, must use fear.

The horse bolted forward, jumping awkwardly over corpses and barely avoiding the living standing soldiers. Something slipped under his right foreleg, and he tripped. Bruce rolled to the dirty ground blackened with fire and muddied with blood, barely avoiding hooves and heavily armored feet as he bathed in the grime.

He opened his eyes quickly, noticed in the chaos of the battle his assailants had lost sight of him, and failed at spotting Ace. He opted for an Arab horse whining and stamping nervously a few meters away, focused his attention on an Arabian sabre in a corpse’s shoulder. His cape felt heavy when he leaped forward to pull it out, and when his gauntleted fingers closed around the handle he briefly thought the embroidered cross on his back had probably been just as arduous a burden for the Christ to bear.

Use fear, he thought grabbing the horse’s saddle, and heaved himself up: his armour was heavy but the horse was shorter than Ace, so he managed. Bruce hated stallions. They were quirky and unpredictable, and their valuated and sought for aggressiveness could just as well turn into blind white terror in battle. They ignored orders, fought their riders in absurd and useless displays of strength, and thus dueled up into the deadlier fights. Many warrior’s had expressed their surprise, and even some contempt, at Bruce’s choice of a mount, but Ace’s calm and soothing dependability had saved him many times.

The Arab he was mounting was nothing like the gelds he had grown used to. Sensitive like a stallion, he was raw energy through sinuous muscles, wild mad eyes and sharp teeth turning their fear into assault, dark coat covered with sweat and white foam, skin shuddering with every contact, every move of Bruce’s legs. Yet it wasn’t the heavy powerhouse of the European horses. Much more subtle, this one was surprisingly pliable. A real steed. Bruce didn’t have to fight for control; without having to be submitted or diminished, the horse gave it to him. All he had to do was move.

He suddenly found himself smirking insanely, adjusting his helmet and inadvertently spreading soot from his hands, where he had briefly kneaded the soil after his fall. Closing his legs in on his horse’s flank, after a quick knot to the reins so his mount wouldn’t step on them when he let go, he kicked another sabre out of somebody’s hand and slit the throat open with the fighter’s own weapon. Warm fluid flowed.

Mounted on his dark Arab, both horse and two-bladed knight bathed in blood and mud and dirt, his cape almost black with gore and grime, he looked positively terrifying. He hollered.

Use fear.

 

*

 

He couldn’t remember how long he had been fighting on the ground, all notion of time lost on him. He recalled Animus’ neck coming dangerously close to his face as the horse reared up, could almost hear the animal’s pitiful and wounded whimper again or feel the incisive edge of a blade coming dangerously close to him and rasping against the chain mail on his left side, cutting through the fabric covering it. His horse had taken the rest of the blunt, giving Clark enough time to roll away, pick up his heater shield and drive its sharpened edge into his assailant’s neck. He had felt the flesh and then the vertebrae give in, and had retracted the shield with a wince, before spinning on himself to shove it against another foe’s face. He had heard the bones crack. It wasn’t pleasant.

Nor was driving his sword into an enemy’s stomach and having to think of such petty things as not to push the blade too far inside least he wanted to lose precious seconds taking it out, which could cost him his life. Nor was knocking a rider off his mount and watch as he was trampled to death, screaming. Nor was watching as your comrades fell all around you, as they moaned and groaned and cried, wriggling and squirming on the ground like the worms that would soon be feeding on them.

He shielded himself from the blow he was being delivered just as he caught another form moving towards him from the corner of his eye. He jumped backwards and ducked. With a heavy intake of breath, he hurled his shield in a swiping motion that sent both attackers staggering away, stunned. He didn’t give them time to regain their senses; racing towards them and raising his sword, he brought the hilt against their skulls strongly, one after the other, effectively knocking them out and making sure they wouldn’t stand much of a chance in battle should they chose to wake up and fight again.

He barely saw the figure leaping at him, had just enough time to raise his shield and wince at the impact when the axe reduced it to shards, and instinctively struck back. The man slumped against him as if for an embrace, the head lolling on his shoulder and blood oozing from his mouth. A startled and gargling cough escaped his lips.

What piteous last words, Clark thought as a wave of sadness washed over him. Far away, he thought he sighted the Hospitaller’s flag floating above the mass of anonymous fighters. Deep compassion for this man he had hugged to death seized him, and he couldn’t help but squeeze back very briefly, as if in apology. He sighted a new threat approaching him with a furious roar and started taking his sword out of the body leaning on him. He was met with resistance.

Shit. He had pushed his blade to its hilt.

A sound of panic went up in the ranks, some soldiers starting to flee. His opponent slowed in surprise and he managed to extract the blade with a pant in time to catch the body as it fell and lower it to the ground, discarding his now useless shield on the way. He thrust his sword forward as he stood up again, using his solid support to strike in a blow so powerful the air recoiled. His adversary avoided it with a gasp and jumped back.

Then a heavy, powerful horse charged towards them, one of those majestic European destriers, all round muscles and heavy hooves surrounded by long fetlocks, strong head weighted with bright steel and massive body covered in white robes, and the knight who rode him lowered his shield against Clark’s opponent before driving his sword in the dazed man, and the blood that shot out didn’t even seem out of place against the red cross painted on the white of the shield.

A Templar.

Around them, a full-scale rout seemed to be taking place amongst Saladin’s ranks. It looked to Clark like the battle of Arsuf was nearing its end.

Strangely, he didn’t even feel like cheering.

 

*

 

“Bruce!” Clark exclaimed when he recognized the dark shape slowly riding towards the camp. He tried standing up but his body wouldn’t move as, horrified, he took in his friend’s appearance. A few head turned to look at the newcomer, more or less evident repulsion showing on their faces once they sighted him.

Richard took a few steps in his direction, amusement clear on his face while Bruce made a soothing gesture to show Clark he wasn’t hurt or in danger.

“Now, now, where have you been?” The king asked, a laugh evident in his voice as he opened his arms wide to greet the Lord of Gotham back.

It was a strangely friendly gesture from someone Bruce had always been so wary of, and he knew it was perfectly calculated so that the other generals didn’t miss one bit. Stopping his horse a few steps away from Richard, Bruce snorted.

“To hell I presume. Considered the soot.” He said deadpan, slowly dismounting the horse. He managed to swallow his slight growl of exhaustion but couldn’t quite refrain from wincing at the task.

He saw some faces scowl at his distasteful joke, which only made him experience a strange, sinister contentment. Richard only laughed again when he saw him smirk, as if in understanding, in a forced affinity Bruce couldn’t help but grudgingly respect. For some reason, the king didn’t want to make an enemy out of him - or wanted him to believe so. Bruce supposed he had heard the rumors of John Lackland’s little schemes in England as well, and had finally started thinking about the course of action instead of vainly trying to crush people into obeying him. He needed allies. Smart move.

The king walked to meet him, setting a hand on his shoulder.

“I take it you were the dark knight I caught sight of earlier in the melee.” He smiled with some satisfaction, glancing around at the closer nobles to make sure he had their attention. He squeezed Bruce’s shoulder and let go. “I have to say I’m impressed. I saw you make some Muslims flee even before the full rout started. They feared you.”

Richard raised a heavy and thick hand to touch the horse’s neck. The animal raised his head a little in surprise, but was too weary to startle properly.

“New horse too I see.” He added, now looking at Bruce’s new acquisition. He patted the horse, who breathed out harshly in answer, his legs shaking. “You are quite resourceful. That’s good.”

 “Thank you my king.” The knight said meekly while Richard on absent-mindedly stroked the horse’s mane. His humility seemed to both amuse and irritate the king whose eyes twitched at little before crinkling in mirth.

Bruce startled imperceptibly when he felt a hand touch his elbow and turned ever so slightly to see his friend had walked to a stop by his side. He looked at Clark closely, checking for any wounds, but apart from the large stain of blood on his chest, which couldn’t be coming from his friend or else he wouldn’t be standing, couldn’t see any indication of injuries.

Richard raised an amused eyebrow at them, a lock of horse hair between his fingers.

“I have to admit, though, that Sir Kent was just as admirable. Did you lose your horse early in the fight?” He asked.

Clark looked uneasy.

“I suppose.” He started, frowning. “I can’t seem to recall the battle really well. The passing of time...”

Richard shrugged with indulgence, and turned to look at Bruce, as if to share a secret information with him, which was impossible with the surrounding nobles and generals intently watching the interaction.

“See, we found him fighting on the ground, without even a shield or a helmet to protect him. Just the chain mail. And not a scratch.” The king raised his free hand towards Clark’s chest, touching the still tepid stain with the tip of his fingers. He then rubbed them together, spreading the blood until it was barely visible. “He didn’t need one, it seems. He has been blessed by the angels.” He gestured at the stain on the blue cloth covering Clark’s armour. “The sovereign red of the Martyrs and the truehearted blue of the Virgin Mary. See the shape? It looks like a shield.” A step back, so he could assess the knight properly: a strong man, a true warrior, courageous like no other. He nodded his approval. “A blessing, I say.”

And indeed the blood on Clark’s chest from the man he had embraced in battle formed the distinct shape of a heater shield. The very same same man who had broken his shield to begin with.

Clark looked up.

“Did you lose many men?” He asked.

Richard seemed pleased with the question.

“There were losses, indeed, and we are still counting, but not many, and surely not nearly as many as Saladin’s, whose ranks are still thinning as we speak.” He smiled ominously. “The Templars and Hospitallers were sent to pursue them. They should be back by nightfall.”

Frowning at the answer, Clark crossed his arms. Bruce was never so grateful for the king’s incredible magnanimity when it came to his friend. He seemed to sincerely believe there was something holy about the younger man, as if he wasn’t entirely human.

“We aren’t taking any prisoners, then.” The blue knight pointed out darkly.

Richard just looked at him with a slight smile. He didn’t have to answer.

“What about their wounded men?” Clark insisted.

The king shrugged.

“If they’re alive enough to think, they’ll wait until we leave before they start moving. If they’re so hurt their pain makes them whimper and someone gets tired of listening, they’ll be put out of their misery.”

Clark bit his lips.

“You said we don’t have many casualties. This means we have people who can tend to their wounds.” He had to swallow a growl of frustration when Richard watched him silently, as if testing him, appraising. “I’ll tend to their wounds myself if I have to.” He snapped, feeling Bruce grow very still by his side.

The king stared expressionless before his shoulders started shaking and he threw his head backwards in a long and deep laugh. The horse jerked away in surprise but Richard kept a firm hold on his mane so he couldn’t pull away, and soothed him by scratching his neck.

“Interesting.” He said, still chuckling, wiping his eyes. “So you’d cut a man open before pushing his guts back inside and sewing up the wounds closed. Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating.” His gaze got lost into the void before he shook his head, a new chuckle escaping him. “I’ll give orders that no one should stop you should you chose to indeed tend to their wound. Do as you wish.”

He patted the horse one last time, and, with a tight smile, walked to greet Garnier de Nablus who had just arrived and set foot on the ground while a servant rushed to take hold of his horse. From the king’s expression, Bruce figured the last minute change in their strategy hadn’t been a choice, but a conflict of powers: when Richard had been supposed to maintain the knights’ position as long as possible before sending them to fight, Garnier had always seemed more hot-headed. He very likely had led the Hospitalers to battle without the king’s consent. Strategically it had worked, since they had won the battle, but politically, it had been extremely risky. And, according to Richard’s body language and his threateningly silky tone, it still was. Not that Garnier was fazed. A man of principles, and beliefs.

Clark stood motionless for a few minutes while Bruce, absent-mindedly pulling at the horse’s dark mane, tried to listen intently to king Richard’s discussion with the Grand Master of the Hospitallers. Behind them, the sky had started darkening.

Bruce felt a hand cover his under the mane and stilled at the contact. He very slowly turned to look at his friend, who pointedly didn’t look back, staring at the dark locks of hair in front of them.

“I found Ace on the battlefield. He was hurt, but alive so I brought him back to Alfred. I... couldn’t find you.” Clark whispered. Then he let go of Bruce’s hand and started caressing the short fur.

 “It’s a beautiful horse” He said.


	3. Chapter 3

Bruce threw his head back and took a long gulp from his gourd. The stars above him didn’t shine particularly bright, just tiny little dots on the dark overhanging immensity, but the contrast against the surrounding black night displayed them a vivid white. The sharp constellations were dizzying, and he didn’t like it. Staring at the soiled ground again was preferable to the feeling of helplessness forced upon mortals by the sky above, because if he haden’t dared believe he was going to make a difference he never would have left his home, his city, his Gotham to begin with. Looking away, he wiped the wine that had trickled down his chin with the back of his scratched hand, felling the scabs rasp against the tenderer skin of his face. A gush of cold wind raised the curtains of his tent to brush against him with a swoosh. He shrugged them off without a hint of a shiver, shifted on the barrel he was seated on. He didn’t startle either when a weight settled down by his side.

Out of balance, the barrel rolled forward a few milimeters before stilling again, held by legs firmly planted in the slightly muddy ground. There was silence before Bruce moved, handed Clark the gourd. He listened as his friend drank. The rustling of clothes. The breathing. The lapping of the wine in the barrel while Clark absent-mindedly rocked them with the gentlest of moves, and in the gourd when he lowered it once he was done. The clicking sound of the gourd’s clasp. The tents flapping in the wind and the trees shivering in concert.

“It’s going to rust.” Clark said soflty, twirling the gourd’s strap around his wrist, and Bruce didn’t even have to look behind them at the armour standing across the entrance of the tent, black with dirt, as if staring straight at their backs, to know what his friend was talking about.

He shrugged, pressed his knee against his friend’s who leaned back until their shoulders brushed in answer, patiently waiting for him to speak:

“I need the armour to be scary.”

Clark didn’t comment on the ambiguity of the sentence by sheer strength of will and, briefly biting the inside of his cheek, he thought to himself that Bruce was perfectly able to be scary without the equally scary armour, specially when his behaviour involved taking so many risks.

Worry, after all, was mainly based on fear for a person’s safety. 

“You also need it to protect you.” He insisted, looking at the other tents in front of them and the way the fabric they were made of shifted in the wind in heavy, ungracious whirls.

In the silence of the night, the wet sound of Bruce’s lips parting into a ferocious smirk was disturbingly distinct. Clark didn’t need to see the resulting expression to picture it.

“Not really, actually. As long as it scares the enemies, they don’t dare strike back.” Bruce explained in a nonchalant, self-satisfied rumble. “At least not fast enough.”

Clark nodded to himself.

 “You’re in a nasty mood.”

The falsely matter-of-fact comment was all it took for Bruce to scowl. Clark felt all pretence at smugness leave him in the way his body tensed. He bumped their knees together in encouragment, inviting him to voice his troubles. The other man obliged grudgingly:

“We have Jerusalem at our mercy.”

Clark winced at his friend’s dark tone and leaned back, his eyes searching for the shine of the stars as if to find comfort in them before talking. They had never failed him before but seemed especially reluctant to reassure him for once. He sighed.

“Our king is reinforcing Jaffa. Stabilizing our situation. I thought you’d be pleased by this.”

Bruce shook his head, knowing that even if he didn’t see it Clark was able to feel the motion. Missing the opportunity to finally get a hold of Jerusalem when Saladin was obviously weakened and his resolve wavering was a strategical mistake considering she was supposed to be the main destination of the military gathering the pilgrimers formed. At the crossroads between Constantinople and Cairo, the city benefited from both metropolises’ knowledge, with the addition of a profound symbolic impact that reached, influenced and gathered people of all religions, a feat worthy of admiration even though – and maybe on account of the very fact – it often resulted in wars. This was just how important Jerusalem was to the world, and yet to him it was even further more: he wasn’t sure, though, he knew the words to explain it, or if he could voice them did he happen to find them. Or more importantly, if he wanted to.

“Bruce?” Clark called out softly, and felt his friend lean heavily against his side into both his touch and his body warmth.

The history, myths and stories, the pain and wounds and injustices of the city, the mathematical advancement, scientific discoveries and superstitious rituals, the heterogeneous architecture and wisdom, the lightness of Arabian sabers and the burning of red embers on a battlefield, for once, might begin to explain his fascination for Jerusalem satisfyingly enough should the need arise.

 “Bruce...” Clark whispered, turning to look at the other man when he heard his deep and slow intake of breath, only to find himself staring into unseeing eyes lost in thoughts of such intensity his friend’s heartbeat had slowed. In the cool night, their breaths mixed in white puffs of lazy vapour.

The grit in the air, sandy and crunchy to the mouth, the smell of salt in the wind, salt but also blood and mud and lime, the grunts of camels and the snorts of mules, and the mix of voices and languages of a modern Babel on a level Constantinople, with all its riches, would never be able to reach. Because for all it was holy Jerusalem was obviously doomed to its loss, irremediably decaying with every single passing of the masses who claimed to wanting to save her.

Mesmerized, Clark saw Bruce raise a hand to his face, felt it rest against his chin, calloused fingers sensible even through thick morning stubble, caressing his cheek in slow motions.

He needed to go to Jerusalem. To infiltrate her. To contact her darkest associates, learn her dirtiest secrets, read her muddiest books, meet her most corrupted citizens and worst of all sympathise with them, assimilate all the knowledge he was going to find in her until he made it his. His task was to seduce her and enter her until he reached the core of her soul, because the apple clearly hadn’t taught mankind enough judging from the mistakes it kept repeating, and he at least was willing to learn from them. If knowing what he should avoid at all costs for his city meant being sullied in Jerusalem’s grime too, then he was willing to risk being damned with her.

To make sure others weren’t.

The heavy thumb stroking Clark’s cheek halted. Bruce stilled. His breathing stopped. His eyes widened minutely, closed with a pained expression as he stood up. Before he left, he asserted his hold of Clark’s chin and dipped his face to plant a harsh, regretful kiss on a cool forehead.

*

“John’s trying to usurp the throne.” Clark said tersely. He grit his teeth trying to force one of his chests closed: the wood had swollen with the humidity and abrupt changes of the weather during the trip, and the lid no longer fit properly.

Bruce didn’t have the politeness of looking surprised at his words, and Clark rolled his eyes.

“The king’s sending me ahead. Sort of a secret mission except it’s not.” He explained, pausing to sigh in contentment when the chest made a soft clicking noise announcing it had been successfuly tamed, and sat on it to rest as he spoke. “Everybody knows I’m leaving before the rest of the army for a reason, and that such a reason could only be given by the king himself. I’m going to have the hardest time ever trying to convince John I’m not being sent by his brother to spy on him.”

Bruce watched him stand up to fold a cloth, but it became painfully obvious that he was just trying to occupy himself to hide his nervousness. After a while, Clark gave up and sighed.

“I know you don’t like king Richard.” He said softly.

Bruce glanced sharply at the entrance of the tent, relieved to find it closed. Not that it was completely sound-proof, far from it, but it was better than being out in the open.

“He’s alright.” He shrugged. “He has grown. Matured. Learned from his mistakes. We didn’t take Jerusalem when we could, which is obviously among the stupidest moves of this pilgrimage, and the treaty could have been more to our advantage, but under the circumstances, it’s the best we could get.”

He looked at Clark’s tense back, and at the rough fingers rubbing the cloth in his hands.

“Take Ace with you.” He said suddenly, startling the other man.

There was a deafening silence. Nodding towards the contents of the tent before Clark could even think about refusing his offer, he added:

“Do you need Alfred’s help with all this?”

He saw his friend shake his head, the longer hair at the back of his skull caressing his nape. He sighed wearily, uncrossed his arms and walked to his side. He didn’t touch him, just stood there, but couldn’t help but take a hold of a corner of the cloth the other man was kneading. Clark let go a little so he had more to hold. The cloth felt warm under his fingers.

“I’ll let you in a secret because I trust you Clark. With my life. And that of my sons.” Bruce started, his voice a solemn whisper. He saw his friend tense as if bracing himself and smiled, both bitter and playful, shook his head to himself. “No, actually, I’ll let you try to figure it out so you have something to keep you busy on your way back.” He chuckled wearily. “Just... If you meet someone called Robin or Hood, say hello from me. That’s all.”

Bruce let go of the cloth and Clark finally shifted, moving to look at him, at the smirk he heard in his friend’s voice without daring confront it.

“You’re staying.”

It wasn’t a question, but Bruce nodded anyway.

 “Yes, I’m going on pilgrimage to Jerusalem. While I can.” He snorted soflty, shaking his head. “The peace treaty allows for christian pilgrims but who knows how long it’ll last.”

Clark looked surprised. His friend hadn’t exactly been particularly interested in the pilgrimage to begin with. Actually, he had been the one... Their roles seemed oddly reversed. How ironic.

Bruce took the cloth from his hands and raised it, unfolding the cape. They were close, close in a way they hadn’t been since that night after their victory at Arsuf and they both knew they wouldn’t be for a long time. They smelled of dirt and leather and horses, Bruce adding a spicy and bittersweet flavor while Clark bore hay and fresh soil. There also was something metallic, and they didn’t know if it came from the steel of weapons and armours, or from the blood they had spilled.

They didn’t want to admit it was from both.

Bruce nodded gravely, lost in thought. Staring at the red creases of the fabric he was holding, he chose to answer the silent query as best as he could given the situation, given what he was willing to admit about himself.

“I have some sins to atone for.” 

 A fast hand jerked to his arm where it first settled gently, then gripped it until he was forced to lower it. The end of the cape touched the floor, flowed on it like blood.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Clark hissed, pulling on the arm until the other man finally complied to meet his eyes.

Bruce looked at him very pointedly, his gaze burning, silent. Clark felt like hurting him in annoyance.

“No you don’t!”

The cape fell to the ground. Bruce watched it slip from his grasp in surprise, as if he hadn’t realised his hands had betrayed him. He bent to pick it up, forcing Clark to let go of him in the process, and settled it on the camp bed, flattening the creases with his palm even though he knew his friend was just going to carelessly fold it anyway. Then he straightened up and walked to the exit.

“Bruce. You don’t. Stop.” Clark insisted, but his friend shook his head, raising a hand to the curtain of the tent. “I can’t believe you’re still g- Stop! Damn you !”

There was some hesitation on Bruce’s part before he finally complied, turning his face slightly so he could watch from the corner of his eyes Clark approach him with fast, wide strides, short of running towards him. And it shouldn’t come as a surprise when the man grabbed and pulled the hair on the back of his head to forcefully kiss him, and actually it didn’t. It was short, brief, as fast as a breath and just as necessary, harsh dry lips pressed against the corner of even harsher dryer lips, and maybe even the fast scraping of two badly shaved skins brushing past each other.

Clark moved back, looked into Bruce’s eyes with his own burning ones for an instant so intense it seemed to stop time, and grabbed the other man’scollar, his face red with fury, his arms taut with the effort of not shaking his infuriating friend out of frustration.

“Well now you do. Are you happy?!”

Bruce set cool hands on his friend’s warm wrists, his grip strong, and for a moment Clark thought he was going to let his temper loose. And maybe Bruce thought so too, because after a few seconds he looked surprised he hadn’t snapped. In the end, he just removed Clark’s hands from his rumpled collar, quickly kissing the inside of a throbbing wrist on the way to letting go.

“No Clark, I’m not.” He admitted. “And I’ll go back to England, to Gotham. It is where I belong, and where I’m needed. Once I’m done here. Once I’ve learned. I will be back.” His gaze softened and he raised the tent’s curtain. “I’ll send Alfred to help you finish packing up and have him ready Ace for when you leave. Have a safe trip back my friend.”

And, cloaking him from Clark’s sight, the curtain fell back behind him like a dark omen.


	4. Epilogue

 

He could feel the surrounding humidity eating through the thick camel wool rug he was seated on, threatening to reach his pants, and kicked a log into the fire, positioning it with a booted foot so it had better chances of setting aflame. Xu’ffasch didn’t seem overly troubled by the change of weather, but then he had been particularly cautious of his mount’s health, covering him with a blanket every time they came to a halt and making sure he didn’t sweat too much under it. Already, hints of a growing winter fur had thickened the animal’s coat.

Bruce narrowed his eyes at the campfire when it crackled hesitatingly. His hands halted in their sewing, thick fingers tightening around the thin needle so it didn’t fall on the humus; after a few seconds of suspens, a flare came up and the fire started again, weak but steady. Perfectly aware he couldn’t influence the combustion just by looking at it, he resumed his work, tightening his cape around him and hunching slightly when a gush of wet wind rushed past him.

They had been camping in these conditions for about a month, give or take a few days, Xu’ffasch learning to move on the unknown soil while Bruce got reacquainted with the depths of his country’s woodlands. He had spared just enough time to send Alfred a carrier pigeon, informing him of his return so the man could get ready to welcome the Lord of Wayne back anytime soon. He was nearing Sherwood Forest at last, the final stage of his journey through England’s wealds. 

Pulling slightly at the extremities of the fabric, he tested the resistance of his needlework, touched the tip of one pointed ear to make sure the wooden stick he had sewn into the cloth didn’t tear it apart. He planned to make the definite model out of leather but wanted to at least have an example to show his sons when he saw them again. Satisfied with the advancement of his work, he ignored Xu’ffasch’s soft snort behind him and the sound of dead leaves crackling under his hooves as the horse shifted his body weight and concentrated on sewing the other side of the cloth.

His sons had done good work, guarding his people and protecting them, but he brought new methods with him he already knew they were going to reject. They should know, though, that friendliness had its limits when the usual chaos happened and overtook human society, and that the most powerful monarchs quickly learned to be feared by the masses to keep a semblance of order. Currently, the masses were too busy worshipping a king they had almost never seen to give the one in charge against all odds the slightest hint of a recognition that might have soothed John’s jealous nature and made Bruce’s work any easier.

He stabbed a little too forcefully with his needle and watched the cloth crease in reaction. He very cautiously loosened the seam, rolling the fabric between the knuckles of his thumbs and forefingers until it was flattened again. In front of him, the fire started smoking because of the humidity of the wood it was fed.

John never would have been so stupid as to provoke Austria. One might argue it would have been out of cowardice, but Bruce was seriously starting to wonder if he wouldn’t rather have a coward king who at least avoided trouble than a bold one who left England on the edge of civil war and whose mess he had to clean. Bruce had made sure his stay at Jerusalem remained a secret, covering it under the pretence of a leisure travel to Constantinople on the way to which he was supposed to have disappeared, very likely captured by vengeful Infidels. He didn’t know how Richard had learned the truth, or where, or thanks to whom even though he had some resentful suspicions that eased with the passing of time, but after one year or so of imprisonment the English king contacted him. So as to oblige the man’s governing demand for help, Bruce Wayne made a miraculous appearance back on the political scene, infiltrating courts and chitchatting diplomats, all the while also working from the shadows and testing the underworld web of informants he had recently figured.

All this so as to gather information about the English king’s imprisonment, which he had until then passed as only yet another rumour.

It turned out the king of Austria had absolutely no proof Richard was at the root of his cousin’s assassination, and that the English king’s truthful reputation of being self-complacent had gotten him far too many enemies, the main reason no one raised a finger when Leopold had him captured on his way back from the holy war. Austria traded him like merchandise – an expensive, precious, and luxury one, though - with the Holy Roman Empire who accepted to take care of the royal prisoner, in dire need of the heavy ransom thay was going to be asked for Richard’s freedom. The emperor didn’t seem to consider the Pope’s wrath and the excommunication that followed as real threats since they did little for the English king’s liberation, which Bruce found quite telling about the limits of symbolics once people stopped believing in them, or no longer found them potent enough.

The English population still seemed receptive to them, though: instead of seeing Richard as just another fool who got in well-deserved trouble, his people erected him to the range of martyr.

With a short lived smirk that went from contempt to the fulfilment of a finished work, Bruce raised the cloth to his face and bit down at the base of the thread, effectively cutting it. He rolled it to the edge of his tongue with his teeth before spitting it, and even then had to try twice before managing to get rid of it.

He held out the mask in front of him to assess his work. It was amateur’s sewing but it was effective: the ears stayed up thanks to the wooden sticks, pointy like a devil’s horns, and the cut of the fabric was edgy and sharp enough to create a feeling of unease just by looking at the empty and loose form.

During his travels through English wealds he had stayed clear of cities, towns and villages as much as possible, but hadn’t been able to avoid stopping by some hamlets once in a while for more consistent foods than what he managed to find in the woods, or at night to go from one forest to another at the regular and energetic gait of his horse. The heavy taxes imposed on the population by the nobles to pay for Richard’s ransom had caused a climate of civil tension and insecurity in the country, and Bruce hadn’t been surprised to notice in his small incursions small half-living animals pinned to the doors so as to chase away the evil eye and other ridiculous witchcrafts. Bloodied owls and quartered cats hanged on the wooden pannels along with small, frenzied bats tearing the membranes of their wings apart trying to free themselves.

Cats and owls were naturally carnivorous and dangerous predators, which didn’t excuse the act but explained why they would be used to scare anything or anyone away, but bats were the epitome of absurdity when it came to irrational fear: pacific creatures excelling in self-preservation, they avoided all types of confrontation as hastily as humans fled them in panic. The worse bats fed on were insects, and only when they didn’t find enough fruits or humus to satiate their small, tiny stomachs. People feared them immensely, unreasonably scared of the idea of a bat, and thus freeing their dread from the bounds that would otherwise have been forced upon it by reality, transforming it into a limitless pool of fear.

Quite ironic when you stopped to think about bats’ weak, thin and fragile nature.

They were perfect, Bruce thought as he slipped the mask on and felt the thick fabric rasp against his skin. The base of the wooden sticks were uncomfortably close to his skull, pressing into his hair, and it would take him some time to learn to ignore the will to scratch his face, but otherwise it seemed to fit him. With an abrupt move towards the saddle behind him at which Xu’ffasch raised his head in surprise, Bruce took one of his sabers out of its sheath and brought it to eye level.

He could barely see himself in the shaky luminosity dimmed by smoke of the weak fire, but what he managed to grasp satisfied the darkest recesses of his mind immensely: a hollow face in which the burning wind of the desert had dug strong lines, clear blue eyes staring straight and unwaveringly back under the black fabric of the mask, almost white in contrast with it and the tanned skin, so dark in the badly lighted night it was hard to tell it apart from the cloth. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he regained his naturally paler skin tone, and he was very intent on using his exotic appearance as much as he could during his first days as the bat-man.

He tidied his sewing kit and produced a flat stone from a small pouch with which he proceeded to sharpen his saber. When his wide and regular motions started dragging slight glows from the metal, the horse lowered his head to test the humus with his lips, looking for something interesting to eat. Once in a while he scratched the ground to uncover hidden grass, or pulled on his leash to try and reach farther spots: it made the dried branches and leaves crack around him, and between his and his master’s occupations a strange duet formed, made of unmatched breathing, different scratching textures, the crackling of irritated fire and of defenceless trees, and here and there a horse’s snort or a human hum. Xu’ffasch barely flinched when Bruce set his blade down, disturbing the unexpected harmony by reaching out for the second saber.

Except there was a third member to their musical improvisation and the muscles’ on his master’s forearm tightened, the only warning Bruce gave before he used the sheathed saber he had just grabbed as a leverage to send the heavy saddle flying into the darkness of the woods.

It fell with a metallic and dull sound quickly followed by a muffled gasp.

Bruce didn’t lose time listening to it, efficiently kicked some moist soil on the campfire and stamped on it to put a definite end to the dieing embers. He hoped the saddle had served as a good enough distraction for the newcomer to be unsettled once he glanced back at the now completely dark clearing.

Grabbing the sharpened saber on the way, he jumped away from the smoking fire pit, absorbing the impact with his heels and knees so as to muffle the sound. He used Xu’ffasch’s heavy breathing and nervous stomping to identify the former location of his invisible intruder. He wasn’t optimistic enough as to think the other person – a man, he supposed from what he had managed to hear of the earlier gasp - had remained on the same spot, but it would help situating him.

He slowed his breathing along with his heartbeat so that his blood stopped pounding in his ears, crouched slightly so he wouldn’t be easily thrown off should the other man chose to charge him. He had to wait until the newcomer gave away more about himself so that he could become the hunter. For now, he was going to have to pretend to be the prey.

There was a shift to the left, one that had nothing to do with Xu’ffasch, and he hastily planted his sharpened saber in the ground to grab a throwing knife at his belt.

“Who-”

He threw it.

Apart from the sound of the knife embedding itself in the thick bark of a tree and his horse’s breathing, there was silence. Bruce narrowed his eyes at the darkness and drew the saber out of the ground. He slowly unsheathed the other blade, waiting.

“I was going to give you a chance to explain yourself, but you clearly have chosen the difficult path.”

Shaking with repressed anger the voice went up farther to the right which meant the man had started edging closer to Xu’ffasch: smart move, as it meant Bruce would have a harder time telling both sounds apart and throwing sharp objects blindly again.

He frowned and disguised his voice in a low gravelling tone when he replied.

“I gave you the time it took me to sharpen my saber to introduce yourself when I spotted you. I’m not a generous man. I don’t like my gifts being wasted.”

He bent to silently grab a small rock and sneaked to the edge of the clearing, making sure he stayed distant from Xu’ffasch. The horse had calmed enough not to produce too many interfering noises and hadn’t shifted to face another direction as he usually did when Bruce’s assailants moved, which meant the intruder was still in his vicinity.

“Your fire was too dim, and the smoke prevented me from getting a proper look.” The voice went up again and, glancing up quickly to appraise the sky, Bruce had to bit back a snicker at the man’s almost apologetic tone. “You seem to be a foreigner, though, so maybe you haven’t been told: Sherwood Forest is off limits to bandits like you. Take your things and your horse and leave. Now. I won’t give you a second warning.”

When he felt a lazy breeze caress his left cheek, Bruce didn’t need to look at the sky again to know it was the right time to bait the other man. He threw the little rock to the other side of the clearing, away from both Xu’ffasch and himself, in the opposite direction of the wind.

“I’m not a bandit.” He growled so his voice echoed slightly in the clearing, making him harder to locate. He knew fully well the intruder wouldn’t believe him and would only take his words as a provocation, and shrugged to himself when, as expected, he heard Xu’ffasch suddenly neigh and fallen leaves crack and slip under heavy footsteps.

Bingo, he sighed, and rushed in the direction he had thrown the small rock just as the wind pushed dark clouds away and forced the waning moon to show its muted glow. It wasn’t much but more than enough for him to spot his assailant ’s silhouette and rush towards it from the shadows still covering his side of the clearing, balancing his sabers in each hands to gain momentum when he struck.

If he was surprised by the strong shield that met his first blow he didn’t show it. He jumped back to re-evaluate the situation.

The caped intruder was barely taller than him but gifted with slightly broader shoulders thanks to which the weight of his heater shield and of his steely sword didn’t seem to bother him. Bruce had only ever met one other man moronic enough to refuse wearing any sort of protective headgear when fighting with a shield, which quite ruined the defencive intent of the later. That man used to argue he wanted to fight face to face with his adversaries, that he rejected the idea of anonymous deaths on battlefields where he insisted on following true to his knightly ideals at the risk of his own life. Moronic, yes, but Clark had also showed he could be brave in his foolishness.

Bruce set upon striking the intruder’s unguarded back, walking around him with a cautious stance that bent into the beginning of a crouch, fast strides feinting to the right and the left just enough to keep the stranger on edge without losing too much energy in useless moves. He stuck the saber of his left hand in the fresh soil, shortly feinted forward with his right one; once again, he was met with the solid shield and while it blocked the other man’s sight, Bruce brought a hand to the second throwing knife at his belt.

He almost missed Xu’ffasch’s leash when the shield unexpectedly moved to threaten his face in a move he was sure he had seen before, and he had to hastily jump back to avoid it. He grabbed his second saber’s hilt on the way and picked it up in a swaying motion that grazed his adversary’s leg.

The shield lowered quickly to try and knock the end of the saber, aiming to unbalance the swordsman, but failed. Relieved at the trotting sounds that informed him he had successfully released the horse, Bruce stared hard a the man in front of him, taking slow, discreet steps in his mount’s direction. The infuriating shield whose colours he couldn’t quite tell in the greyish light of the moon had a strangely familiar pattern, a dark sinuous line on a paler background which evoked a river of blood on dunes of sand to him.

Bruce dropped into a defensive stance. Meeting the other man’s eyes was a difficult task in the shadowy moonlight as the shield kept hiding part of the face in front of him, but he would be damned if he didn’t find a way of getting rid of the doubt that had suddenly assaulted him.

Xu’ffasch surged by his side, threatening teeth uncovered that shone unpleasantly in the moonlight and eyes opened so wide they were circled in white, a sight at which the intruder wavered.

“The hor-” He mouthed hoarsely, taking a small step back.

The shield fell to the ground with a clatter, and it took all of Bruce’s self-control not to strike in a deadly and reflexive blow at the opening. He straightened with a wince, lowering his sabers, and they stared at each other in a breathless silence. The wind blew around them, raising their capes.

Bruce moved.

“That was a nasty, nasty move Clark.” He said, setting his sabers down.

Bewildered, Clark assessed him from head to toe, took a step towards him. He raised a hand to sketch a heartfelt gesture in the air he contained at the last moment, his face a picture of conflicted emotions. His hand fell limply by his side.

He cleared his throat, uneasy.

“The horse.” He whispered, staring at Xu’ffasch in amazement. “You kept it.”

He absent-mindedly sheathed his sword and walked to the animal to try and touch him. Xu’ffasch shied away, rendered too nervous by the raw energy and tension of the fight to let himself be petted by a stranger.

Smiling bitterly at the rejection, Clark lowered his hand.

“Don’t mind him.” Bruce said nearby. “He’s a total moron, doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

Clark looked at him painfully.

“And you do?”

Bringing a hand to his chin to pull the mask over his head, Bruce shrugged.

“I don’t intend on missing anything now I’m back.” He half-smirked in a ferocious expression, relishing in the feeling of cool air against his skin irritated by the thick fabric. “Actually, I was hoping you’d tell me about what I missed. Robin Hood, their clique, and where the hell Dick and Tim found such ridiculous names for starters.” He teased roughly.

Clark stared at the horse standing in front of them with shivering nostrils. Bruce looked pointedly at his friend, followed his gaze knowingly. He sighed to himself. At himself. Reluctant, he remained immobile the time it took him to listen to a few of their breathing, then walked towards Xu’ffasch. He grabbed the short end of the leash and pulled him towards them.

Startled out of his sore thoughts, Clark jumped back in surprise at the sudden closeness of the animal. He stilled when he felt Bruce take his hand and bring it to the short fur of the horse’s neck. The skin shuddered under their touch, but Xu’ffasch didn’t try to avoid it again. Breathing deeply, the animal shook his tail and twitched his ears to show his impatience.

“I’m happy to see you.” Clark admitted, his voice so thick with conflicted emotions a lesser man than Bruce would have accused him of lying.

The fingers around his hand tightened their hold to guide it once again until it was pressed against cool and chapped lips that tenderly kissed his tense knuckles. The lips themselves didn’t feel entirely reassured; moving almost unnoticeably they seemed to be miming a question they didn’t dare voice.

 “Actually-” Bruce finally acknowledged against the calloused skin. “I was hoping you’d help me make up for what I missed.”

Clark stilled. He tugged at his captive hand in slow yet insistent attempts. Every time he tried to free it Bruce tightened his hold slightly, pressing his lips closer and closer until they parted under the pressure and the back of the hand met clenched teeth. The dark-clad man paused.

Bruce released him in abrupt resignation.

 “Don’t be an idiot.” Clark growled heatedly, touching the darkening face. “You’re a smart man Bruce, and I haven’t known you for giving into the luxury of denial.”

The moon hid back behind the thick clouds that weighted the night, and he was left with only touch to try and feel expressions he had until then managed to figure out in the shadows. After a few touches he let go, and with both his hands freed he engulfed Bruce in a tight embrace so tender and gentle with repressed feelings it was painful. Bruce screwed his eyes shut at the intensity, breath taken away when Clark’s hands splayed on his back, fingers digging around his shoulder blades before the hands closed into fists around the fabric of his shirt.

“You didn’t miss anything.” Clark said, his breath short. His voiced was muffled against his friend’s shoulder, and the memories left Bruce dizzy.

“No?”

Clark shook his head in answer, his hair tickling Bruce’s face, making the skin of his cheek rendered sensitive by his mask tingle.

“No. Nothing. It’s still here. All of it. Waiting.”

With reluctance, Bruce smiled into the embrace. He dipped his head to kiss the underside of an ear, the base of a jaw, the thick tendon of a neck, and at the shiver that shook Clark’s whole body against him, he closed his eyes to breath deeply in the smell of the other man.

At last, England decided to feel welcoming.


End file.
